White Flower
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: The sad story of a Gondorian couple sundered by the fell orders of Denethor.
1. Mist and Shadow

**"White Flower"**  
  
Work: Lord of the Rings   
Characters: OCs   
Genre: Angst/Tragedy   
Rating: PG-13   
A/N: This is told from the first-person POV of a Gondorian soldier; he is mine, as is Anwë. I intend for this to be a three-chapter deal.  
  
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I. Mist and Shadow  
  
The streets are misty and quiet in the pale morning's first light; a dim sun shines down and glints on our armour. The only sound is the soft clip-clop of horse-hooves on stone. Slowly we make our way down to the Gate, with no cries of battle or calls to those we pass.  
  
Faramir rides at our head, silent and fey. He knows that the price we pay for this attempt to retake Osgiliath will be high. But for the Lord Denethor it is no different from any other day. He remains in his humble throne or locked in his tower, and whether he cares at all for the tenscore armed men who now head for fruitless battle none can say.  
  
The people who line the streets are solemn. Mothers, sisters, daughters strew flowers in front of us as blessings of a safe return. I see my beautiful Anwë ahead and wish that Denethor's judgment was not so clouded.  
  
We are betrothed, Anwë and I. We made our true farewell yesterday evening, when all the cavalry was told of the morning's mission. I gave her the news, and she did not cry, or turn away, or beseech me not to go. Instead she took my hands in hers and swore to me that I would always have all her love, whether the siege go well or ill. She tore a piece of lace from her sleeve and pressed it into my palm. Then kissing me softly, she touched my face and we parted.  
  
Even now I have that piece of lace under my armour, close to my heart. I ride near her, and look for what may be the last time upon what I deem the most beautiful face in all the world. Her hair is as the darkest hour of night and her eyes hold a look of sad resolve. She looks up at me bravely and hand me a small white flower; I see that she has an identical one pinned to her dress. She gives me a sweet smile as I tuck the flower into one of my sword-buckles. Then we are separated once more as the horses proceed.  
  
Suddenly we riders pass through the Gate. White walls no longer protect us; we are exposed upon the Pelennor. I make sure that Anwë's flower is secure, and we ride.   
  
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Yes, short and very chaste, I know. Care to review?


	2. Cloud and Shade

II. Cloud and Shade  
  
A/N: I own Anwe and our nameless soldier. Everything else is Tolkien's glorious creation.  
  
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It was the worst thing she had ever endured. Anwë had put on a brave face for her betrothed, but to watch him ride away from her into the very face of death was pure torture. There was nothing she could have done to stop him; she had known the risk that came with loving a soldier of Gondor, especially in these dark days. Yet she wished that the Steward could understand that the river-city was lost to them, and sending away warriors that were needed in Minas Tirith was no solution.  
  
Briefly she wondered if she climbed up to the sixth or seventh level of the city perhaps she could see the soldiers charging towards Osgiliath's ruins. She feared what she might see, though, and instead offered a silent prayer to him, willing that he would somehow be protected and come safe home to her.  
  
And so she waited.  
  
There was no laughter in the White City that morning or afternoon; even the small children seemed to understand the grave situation. She spoke quietly with a few neighbors and empathized with those who had just been parted from their husbands and sons. She continued her work on a quilt which she hoped would soon cover their bed. A thought arose which frightened her: that it was likely that the half-complete quilt would never be needed – but, no. She touched the flower on her dress and refused to believe it.  
  
It was a long, cruel day. The edges of her flower began to brown; she told herself that it was natural, but it would have been so much more reassuring if the petals had stayed fresh and white.  
  
When she could stitch no longer, Anwë wandered the city, seeking comfort and friendly faces. It was just after eleven bells pealed that she found herself upon the first level amid frantic mothers and anxious guards. Long had deep drums been heard in the distance, and it seemed they drew ever closer. The stonéd streets fairly quaked as the drumbeats sounded.  
  
The words _orcs, army, trolls,_ and other things unpleasant drifted through the sea of uneasy citizens in the first level courtyard. Suddenly a cry of, "Open the Gate! Quickly!" came up from the wall. Several guards sprang forth and drew back the massive gate. To everyone's surprise, in came a horse dragging the body of a Gondorian soldier in armour battered and stained, not far ahead of a monstrous black army.  
  
Anwë held her breath as the Gate was closed, torn between hoping it was her beloved and dreading that it might be.  
  
"It is the Lord Faramir!" one of the guards exclaimed in astonishment.  
  
"The others..." his comrade began, trailing off bravely.  
  
Cries arose from the people who had seen off friends and family that morning. Anwë stood silent and numb. He was dead. Gone. No, he couldn't be. They were going to marry in less than three weeks; they were going to have children and raise a family, and spend the rest of their days together.  
  
Hushed whispers taunted her ears.  
  
_"No survivors..."  
  
"Sent to their deaths..."  
  
"...all perished..."  
  
"...never stood a chance."  
_  
Her eyes stung with the threat of tears and she turned and fled the cruel courtyard, returning home as quickly as her feet would allow her. She threw herself into the nearest chair and moaned in anguish, her body wracking with sobs. She pounded her fists on the table before her, screaming in denial until at last the shock left her.  
  
He was dead. No home, no family, no growing old together. Dead.  
  
She removed the flower from her dress. One of the petals fell off; already its snowy surface was dull and rotting.  
  
Anwë folded her arms on the table and laid her head down on them. Her hope, her dreams, her love – all had been taken by the darkness. All were dead.   
  
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Depressing much? The final chapter should be up pretty soon, but I'm warning you, it won't be cheerful either. Anyhow, please review and tell me what you think!  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**Lady of Rivendell78--** Wow, thanks so much for your awesome review!!! Sorry this chapter isn't happier... the genre is labeled as "Tragedy" ;)  
  
**DreaminofLorien--** Thanks, I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well! 


	3. All Shall Fade

Here's the final installment of our tragic series... enjoy!  
  
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III. All Shall Fade

It was near dusk when the orcs were busy at work repairing the bridge at Osgiliath. Already the trolls and siege towers and a countless host out of Minas Morgul were drawing closer. The orcs toiled in the growing darkness, using wood, stone, and iron to mend the broken passage over the river as quickly as possible. The clanks of their hammers were no match for the ever-loudening drumming to the East.

While these orcs worked up in the ruined city, a few climbed out of a crude boat onto the riverbank on the Pelennor. The corpses of men and horses lay prone on the grass.

"Search th' dead fer loot 'n weap'ns we can use! An' look fer unbroken arra's too," their leader growled. "Move, ye dogs, 'fore the rest make it over 'ere!" The members of the small party scattered. Some set about coming the grass for fallen black-feathered arrows which could still be of use, but most began searching the bodies of the dead soldiers.

One orc shuffled over to the corpse of a man, lying twisted on his side with one leg pinned under the fallen body of his horse. His steel armor, hammered carefully to bear the image of that hateful tree, was intact, save where one arrow had punched through it into his heart. A thin trail of blood leaked out from the hole in armor and body. The orc sniffed the air and leered cruelly at the body. The scent of blood would be so thick in the air by the morning that all the carrion-fowl from Mordor to Moria would come to feast on the dead.

He checked the body for trinkets of worth, but found not a single jewel or bit of gold. Grunting, he took the wrist of the fallen soldier and roughly pulled him out form under the horse. The then kicked the body over onto its other side and searched there. Still, he found nothing.

Yet a glimpse of white caught the orc's yellow eye, and upon closer inspection he saw that there was a little flower stuck into a buckle at the soldier's side. A browning petal fluttered off, and the orc frowned at the flower from whence it came.

_Fool tarks_, he thought. _Impossible te understand. What soldier rides inta battle with somethin' so ridiculous 'pon 'im? Tarks. Mad, all of 'em._

He shook his head and spat in contempt upon the corpse. He then moved on in hopes of more success with the next body.

Before long the bridge was mended and the host was marching across the open field towards the White City. Corpses were trampled, swords of the dead were trod upon, and an unassuming white flower was crushed into oblivion in the mud.  
  
End.  
  
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Note: By the way, "tark" is a derogatory word used by orcs to refer to the Men of Numenor or their descendants. Just in case you didn't know. :)  
  
Care to leave a final review? Thanks for reading!  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**Ana the Serial Andy Molester** -- But wait-- that's only one "n" I see in your name! Lol... hooray for your ever-delightful reviews! Grima says thanks for his "Grima-Snack," by the way.  
  
**DreaminofLorien** -- Glad to see you don't depress easily! _This_ is the end.  
  
Over and out.


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